Go for the Body by Ed Lacy

Author:Ed Lacy [Lacy, Ed]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: マイコンテンツ
Amazon: B002L16OQU
Goodreads: 13038282
Publisher: Grotto Pulp Fiction
Published: 1954-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 7

THE SMALL GUY in brown tweeds was something in the American Embassy not the top guy, but high up. The other one with the crew-cut hair and the shoulders that made him look like a college halfback was FBI. Maybe not. I was too mad and rattled to get names and titles straight.

For three days the French police had given me a run-around, and if you think we have red tape in the States, the French can give us lessons in stalling. When I first went to them to see the body, asked whether, they'd found my ring or not, they were polite, very interested—and it all ended with their carefully checking my alibi, trying to grill me. Marion had been killed before noon, and fortunately it was then I went out to buy rum and fix a hot toddy for my landlady. If I hadn't had her to back me up, they'd probably still be sweating me.

When I finally convinced them I wasn't a suspect, they thanked me for my trouble, told me they were old hands at solving murder cases and pretty good at it. In time they would most certainly catch the killer or killers and it was best for me to go about my business and wait till they called me—if they needed me.

I wasn't buying a brush-off, so I went to the Embassy.

The tweedy character was saying, “You must realize one important factor—this case is in the hands of the French police. Just as if a French woman was murdered in—say, Baltimore—the case would be first and last in the lap of the Baltimore police. Of course, since Miss Severn was an American citizen, we co-operate with the police in every way. But we must give them time; it's only been three days since the killing of Miss—”

“Three days or three months, the thing is they won't listen to me,” I cut in. “They're off on the wrong trail. Marion told me she was working on a terrific yarn, front-page stuff. It was the sort of thing she probably didn't tell anybody else. I'm sure that was the cause of her—her—death. Then, there's my ring. That's disappeared. It should be a big clue.”

The FBI joker gave me a superior smile. “Yes, itshould be. Mr. Francine, solving a murder, the movies to the contrary, is no work for amateurs. The Paris police know their business.”

“Damn it, then why do they act like I'm stuffing them with lies!” I said, the tight feeling inside me making me dizzy with the desire to get into action—do something besides talk.

“Because this front page story angle of yours may be true, or...”

“It is true—I know!”

He held up a big paw and smiled again—his teeth crowding his silly mouth. “Francine, you were a close friend of Miss Severn, so you can't have the objective approach the police have. You say she was on a big story—it's possible she onlythought she had a real yarn. Then again, she may have said it to impress you.

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